


Ink Blots and Feathered Quills

by EmeraldSage



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: 1930s, Alternate Universe - Anastasia Fusion, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Americat - Freeform, Angst, Cats are Amazing, Cold War, Historical Fantasy, I don't want to offend anyone, I'm so sorry, Kitty cats, Latest Chapter at Least, M/M, Mpreg, Nekomurica, Nekotalia, Poor Alfred, Promise, Relationship Reveal, RusAme, Secret Relationship, Soulmate Color Vision, That is NOT taking place in Russia, Tumblr Prompt, With interesting rules, at least it will be, gerame - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-01
Updated: 2017-10-13
Packaged: 2019-01-08 00:07:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12243246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmeraldSage/pseuds/EmeraldSage
Summary: A collection of potential chaptered fics-to-be along with some of my prompt fics off of tumblr! A mix of Hetalia, RusAme, GerAme, and Gen.Chapter One: Anastasia AU (RusAme)Chapter Two: When Cats come before Blackmail (RusAme)Chapter Three: A Caveat Ch.1: When the World Falls Apart (RusAme)Chapter Four: Alaska's Lullaby (RusAme)Chapter Five: They Should've Known (GerAme)





	1. Embers of Memory (Anastasia AU)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anastasia AU - fusion of the musical and the 1997 movie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Probably would be best if you were listening to "Once Upon a December," or "In my Dreams," from the Broadway musical Anastasia while you read this. Though I haven't seen the musical, so the scene I was picturing was the one from the movie. I think the actual story would be divergent though....

            “Pooka!” he called, smiling, even as he tried to figure a way past the old boards they’d used to close up the monarch’s old palace. Cheerful barking echoed from inside, and his hand curled against a groove in the somewhat rotted wood. With a mighty yank, he wrenched it from where it had been nailed into the wall. He winced at the echo it created, glancing around nervously; one could never tell where the secret police were, and people had gotten killed for far less than simply being where they weren’t allowed to be.

            But the palace was clear from what he could see, and standing out in front of the door would get even more attention than sneaking inside. Pooka’s barks were echoing in his ears, so he sighed, set the wooden planks off to the side, and set off inside.

            His eyes were wide, searching the cobwebbed halls with curiosity and something that burned odd and bright in the recesses of his mind. He smiled as he walked past decade worn old tapestries, and paused at a table filled with dishware. He picked up what looked like a vase of some kind, and his wonder-filled smile faltered.

            For a moment, the vase gleamed shinning gold – polished like the shining sun – and the paintings on it glowed softly in the nonexistent light. And then, the vision was gone, and he nearly dropped the vase in his surprise.

            He traced a finger along the outline of what might’ve been dancing bears, painted on the upper quarter of the vase. Flying, gleaming angel wings were pained beneath it, practically glowing against the tarnished gold of the vase. Another flash – where the hall was lit, the cobwebs gone – and the paint gleamed, almost new, smiling at him as he held it with small hands. Then, it was gone, and he _did_ drop the vase, wincing as it clattered noisily against the table.

            His breath was coming to fast, he realized. He couldn’t breathe. What was going on?

            Excited barking broke into his confused panic, and he shook himself, before turning to look for his dog. If Pooka got lost in this place, he’d never forgive himself for losing his best friend.

            “Pooka!” he called, “Pooka, where are you going?!”

            He followed Pooka’s exuberant barking into another hallway, eyes widening as he caught sight of a grand balcony. He brushed his fingers along the marbled railing, glancing down, only to freeze. It wasn’t a balcony at all, he realized, and something in his mind stirred. It was a grand ballroom staircase.

            He moved towards the top of the stairs, almost in a daze, and gasped. There was an entire second hall, superimposed on the dusty, empty hall around him. And in that second hall, an enchantment drew him in. Figures danced gracefully, carefully tracing a dance he knew across not-worn marble floors. Music twined through the not-stale, not-oppressive air. The flashes of horses prancing through a silver storm gleamed through not-boarded, not-cracked windows. Someone sang a lullaby that had his heart wrenching, and he caught a glimpse of a figure amongst the crowd with eyes like _his_.

            He started down the stairs, almost unconsciously swaying to the music he could almost hear. He walked with a grace he’d never known, yet felt almost natural, and as he passed, the figures waltzing on the steps would turn to bow. Their eyes smiled and lips parted, as the called him something they couldn’t hear, but his heart knew so well.

            Alfred hit the bottom step, the crowd parted in front of him, and he saw a face – oh, _how his heart quaked at that face_ – warm, and kind, smiling at a young child that could’ve been him, not even ten years ago.

            Before his memories had been stolen from him.

            The man, with kind, warm green eyes, rich blond hair, and eyebrows like train signals, smiled lovingly at the child, and swept him up and into a beautiful dance that Alfred could all but _remember_ , the melody hanging in the air around him.

            His eyes slid shut as the music slid into his heart, and he swept forwards into the dance.

            It was like something magic had taken ahold of him. He swept into a twirl, not realizing the almost-silk feeling of dancing shoes on his feet sliding over marble floors instead of the thin, but sturdy boots he’d worn for years. Fabric swooshed about him, fabric not there at all, but, _oh_ he could feel it on his skin! A warm hand anchored itself at the small of his back as he swept through the dance, and he opened blue eyes to stare at a misty green pair just out of sight.

            Loving green eyes, looking only at him – _oh_ , how he _knew_ those eyes!

            They smiled at him so warmly, so lovingly, and a gloved hand came up and cupped his face, brushing away the tears that fell. He didn’t dare close his eyes, didn’t, because he _knew_ it would all fade away, until all he could recall would only be an ember of memory in the silver storm of his mind.

            He hiccupped on a sob when the image faded away, the warmth of the hold sliding into the bitter chill of winter, and stumbled back.

            But there! He jolted out of the near tide of despair that had almost overcome him, and turned. The ballroom was filled, still; it was filled with dancing pairs – fabric swirling around them and joy in their eyes, warmth in their steps – and the soft song of music twining through the air.

            And, before his very eyes, everything crumbled. The hall’s brilliance faded until the walls were dull, dim and grimy, filled with the residue of a decade’s worth of misuse and careless abandon. The cold winter winds howled through the cracked and broken windows, and extinguished the candles with one fluid movement. He dropped to his knees, wrapping his arms around himself as he watched the graceful figures fade into the stale, empty air around him, and the music choked into something that existed only in his mind.

            Pooka leapt into his arms, whining in concern, eyes big and wide and worried. He laughed a watery laugh, buried his face into his faithful companion’s fur, and cried.

            Completely unwary of the violet eyes that had watched him since he’d entered the palace.


	2. When Cats come before Blackmail

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In response to the tumblr post - write me the beginning of a dialogue and I'll write you a short fic!  
> Prompt: “…and then, Matthew showed me his butt and – IVAN, holy FUCK, look! A cat!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had so much fun with this one.

            “…and then, Matthew showed me his butt and – IVAN, holy FUCK, look! A cat!”

            Ivan abruptly tuned back into his lover’s babbling at the excited shout, and turned to catch sight of a plump looking main coon trying to creep out of one of their neighbors’ apartments. He stared at it for a moment, and the main coon stared back, the brown splotches on the fur blending with the beige just enough to make it look like it’d stolen a pair of his lover’s glasses. He blinked. It tilted its head and mewed cutely.

            “SQUEEEEEEE” was shrieked right into his ear, as Alfred yanked him close and squeezed him, ecstatic. He bit back a wince, and sighed.

            His boyfriend normally had a short attention span, but when it came to animals - especially the adorable, cuddly variety (which for Alfred, included bears for Christ’s sake)- it was nonexistent. His lover would coo over them for hours. And Ivan loved animals – really, he _did_ – but he had nowhere near the devotion that his Alfred did.

            The cat looked up at Alfred and meowed cutely – prompting another ear shattering squeal – probably thinking _here’s another sucker I can milk for food_ , Ivan thought uncharitably. Though by the looks of the remains trailing where the cat had been, it looks like he’d found their fish thief. At least Mrs. Number 5b would stop hassling them about the missing fish. He was pretty sure she thought he was an ex-Soviet spy who kept sneaking into her apartment to steal her gourmet imported Norwegian salmon. Though why a _Soviet spy_ would break into _her_ apartment to steal _salmon_ he’d never quite figured out….

            Alfred was a big meat eater. Ivan preferred red meat, though he did like fish as well. But neither of them ate fish with the consistency that Mrs. Number 5b claimed her salmon disappeared at. Thank God for Alfred’s brief venture into the legal world – he’d convinced her not to demand recompense. He’d _seen_ the bills for those fish – he shivered.

            “Awww, look at the poor thing, Vanya,” his lover was now cooing, fussing over the cat, who was milking it like there was no tomorrow, before turning to toss a pleading look at him. “He looks so hungry and lost,” He certainly looked no such thing to _Ivan_ , “we should get him something to eat!”

            “He’s already had his fill, I would think,” he responded dryly, glancing at the fish remains near the door of Number 5b, before looking straight into big, pleading baby blues and said, “I thought you wanted to finish telling me about your brother’s drunken escapades?”

            “I can tell you the story of Matthew drunkenly mooning half the members of the Canadian parliament later!” he said impatiently, and he was sure that Matthew would be relieved that Ivan wouldn’t have that much more blackmail material on him. “We need to feed the poor thing!”

            “You’re visiting Matthew in a few hours,” he reminded his lover, “Isn’t he allergic to cat hair,” which was getting all over the younger blond as he curled the purring cat closer to his body.

            “I’ll shower later,” he cooed as he nuzzled noses with the cat in his arms. Ivan wondered if he should be concerned about diseases, but then again, the cat looked too well taken care of to be a stray.

            “Weren’t you going to work on your thesis while the pie was baking?” he reminded, moving forwards to wrap his arm around Alfred’s waist and pull him down the hall. The cat shifted, and gave a _mrrmph_ as it resettled. “Arthur will be furious if you don’t bring the pie,” he insisted, “and doesn’t your professor want an outline of your paper by tonight?”

            “Arthur’s bringing his own pie,” Alfred said, as if he hadn’t just condemned everyone at the party to a night of choking down charcoal and an even worse night trying to digest it, “and Professor Vargas just wanted a bibliography. I’ll just pull it off from my citation system.”

            Right. So, either way, he was going to die through a furious Arthur Kirkland for neglecting to redirect Alfred’s crazy impulses.

            Ivan looked at the plump, smug looking cat, and sighed. There was no way this wasn’t coming back to haunt him.

            “Why don’t _I_ get the little one fed and washed,” he proposed, and Alfred turned to him and blinked. “I’ll take him out for a nice treatment at the pet spa down the street, they can keep him over night,” Elizabeta, the owner, would give him a discount, because despite the fact that neither of them had a pet, they were in there every week or so with one of Alfred’s strays. “You, моя Лубова, go finish your bibliography. Bake your pie, so your brothers don’t kill me. Shower, get dressed, and tomorrow we can see about finding his owner, да?”

            Alfred and the cat turned mirroring pleading eyes at him, “Can’t we keep him?”

            Ivan stared at the tower of puppy-dog-eyed cuteness and refused to flinch and cower at the power in those mirrored gazes. He would _not_ give in.

            Alfred bit down on his bottom lip and there was the faint sheen of tears building in big, brilliant blue eyes. Ivan bit back a groan and could already picture himself in his mind waving a white flag. That’s it, he was done. Why the hell was it _his_ boyfriend that had to be so fucking extra? And why did he love him anyways?

            “I’ll get Eliza to run him,” was it even a him? “through the registry, and check for a chip,” he said, feeling as though he was standing at the top of a mountain with a rockslide building beneath his feet.

            The ear-piercing squeal that Alfred let out was deafening. And that was by human standards, he couldn’t even imagine how the cat was still purring like a motorboat being as close as he was.

            Of course, the multitude of kisses his lover pressed upon him absolutely made up for the ear piercing squeals. He even resigned himself to becoming fond of the fluffball that was nuzzling his arm from where he’d ended up squashed between the two of them.

            “My salmon!” a furious voice screeched from down the hall, and they jerked apart to stare at each other for a long moment, before turning both their gazes on the cat, who, as impossible as it seemed, had adopted an adorable innocent expression. An expression that was ruined by the piece of fish stuck on its whiskers.

            Ivan closed his eyes and inhaled, long and deep, before he turned to face the sheepish expression on Alfred’s face. “I’d better take the back staircase, then,” he said dryly, settling the cat into his arms.

            “You’re the best, babe!” Alfred grinned, “Oooh, when you get back, I’ll finish telling you about how Matt got drunk and tried to show me his ass tattoo and ended up mooning half the Canadian parliament! I promise!”

            Ah, so he was being paid in blackmail. Well, as long as Matthew was still sensitive to that kind of ploy – and he usually was – then it was well worth it.

            “Pie,” he said, regardless, “and _shower_ , Fedya. I’ll need the shower when I get back.”

            Alfred waved him goodbye and unlocked the door, ducking into their hallway just quick enough to avoid a furious Mrs. Number 5b who was coming their way. Ivan ducked down the stairwell, but that harridan’s screeching was audible even on ground level. The still nameless cat in his arms meowed in distress, patting his paws over his fluffy ears, and Ivan looked at him in sympathy for the first time.

            Well, at least there would be someone else to suffer the woman’s wrath now. Poor cat didn’t know what it was getting itself into.


	3. The Caveat Ch.1: When The World Falls Apart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you can only activate your soulmate's color vision - and vice versa - when you're both twenty one, who's to tell if your soulmate isn't someone you've grown up knowing your whole life?  
> What happens when that particular experience...isn't exactly a good one?  
> Alfred thinks he knows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Despite the heavy angst and foreboding in this chapter, this story as outlined *does* have a happy ending. This is a story of character growth, of understanding the wrongs committed, of development and bettering ones' self. It will be a Happy Ending, but it will take time. I love writing angsty RusAme, but believe me, Alfred's like my baby, I hate seeing him hurting, so I'm on his side in this one.

It was only when the window clattered shut behind him that he realized he’d bolted all the way from the old forest clearing to his house without stopping. He nearly dropped to his knees in front of the windowsill, but the rising commotion from downstairs spurred him into action instead. The likelihood of him being discovered would only increase if he didn’t _hide_.

            _One day_ , he thought glumly, he wouldn’t have to hide in his own room to protect himself from the verbal spite the world threw at him. But for now…he was entirely too grateful that neither of his parents ever realized that half his closed space had been converted into a hidden bunker where only he could access it.

            He slid the small door shut, blocking out the rest of the closet and the bedroom, just in time to hear the stomping of footsteps on the staircase. He pushed himself against the back of the actual closet wall, not daring to turn on the small lamp he’d settled in the space, and nearly winced when the hallway door swung open with an angry _bang!_ His ears twitched and his brows furrowed; his father’s voice was chief amongst the commotion, with _papa_ following him up, voice soothing if not slightly confused, and then….

            Then… His fists clenched.

            _Ivan_.

            For one moment, he was wildly hopeful that his parents would shoo the other away, tell him to come back later – that if Alfred didn’t want to see him, it was his prerogative.

            But then again, that’s how he’d gotten into this mess, wasn’t it? Believing that his parents would believe him above all who claimed otherwise. He’d believed they’d trust him – he was their _son_ , how could they _not_? But _Ivan_ …damned Ivan was always the exception. The exception that soon became the rule, the rule that precluded every other possibility.

            Ivan was Matthew’s best friend. Ivan was an angel in his parent’s eyes. Ivan defended him from bullies, dropped a raincoat on his head when he forgot one, and made sure Alfred sat with him and his brother during lunch. But, even then, Ivan was his bully; his worst tormentor, ever since he’d been little and hadn’t a care in the world but putting a smile on other’s faces. And no one would ever believe him, because all they would ever see was how Ivan took care of him.

            They would never see the bruises under the wristbands he’d worn, or the ones that were _always_ covered by his shirt. They didn’t see the hint of cruelty in violet eyes – _oh_ , the irony that it was the only color he could see, and he could see it so _well_ – when Ivan dragged him out of his sanctuary for lunch. They didn’t see the missing homework assignments, or ripped textbooks as anything but teenage rebelliousness or childish misbehavior. _A call for attention_ , his father had scoffed, dismissively, staring him straight in the face – black eye and all, the one time Ivan had gotten mad enough to forget to be careful – _now tell us what **really** happened_.

            _They thought he was lying_ , he remembered thinking, devastation and mixed disbelief filling his small body. Everyone did.

            So he stopped telling them. He stopped smiling. He stopped talking. He went to school, learned to hide his assignments and padlock his belongings, wore the key around his neck and snuck away from every time his parents tried to get him to play with his brother and Matthew’s friends. He converted half of his closet into a little hideaway, and ended up sleeping in it more often then not. Often enough that his parents padlocked the window, thinking he was sneaking out at night, but unable to prove it.

            And as the years passed, the bullying became less physical and more verbal, more emotional. Ivan liked having him nearby, but he’d learned well that people would be more suspicious as they grew older, so he’d eased on the physical abuse. He didn’t go home with more bruises than he could count, but instead he was subjected to a constant stream of criticism. Snide little things that most people would dismiss – things about his weight, about his grades, about his smile…things they’d overlook, because _oh, they’re just teenagers_ – and Alfred would walk away whole but bleeding silently inside.

            Silently, because he’d long since learned that even though his parents said they loved him, they didn’t ever believe him. And that hurt.

            He wrapped his arms around himself as the voices outside the door grew louder and more outraged. He didn’t even have to hear it to know what they were saying, already knowing that Ivan had told them what had happened.

            That Ivan had caught him when he’d been running from one of their stupid chases, and grabbed his arm before he’d been slung unceremoniously over the asshole’s shoulder, ready kick and shout until he noticed that the grass…wasn’t gray anymore.

            He’d thought it was one of his nightmares – that he was seeing things in his daze, that maybe Ivan had knocked him on the head before he’d been swept off his feet – but then, he’d felt Ivan go still underneath him…felt the same _shock-stunned awe-realization_ dawning, processing and he realized that it was _real_.

            He kicked Ivan where it _really_ hurt and bolted for home, and now, here he was.

            He’d left Ivan behind, and now Ivan had the advantage. Because, really, who _runs away_ from their soulmate? Who was that kind of monster?

            Him, apparently, he thought bitterly, as the commotion grew louder and there was a frantic sort of movement – it made him think of stampeding hippos actually – towards his room. And, soon enough, there was a furious knocking on his door.

            “Alfred!” his father barked through the hardwood, “Alfred Frederick Kirkland-Jones, open this door _right now_!”

            “ _Cher_ ,” his _papa_ said softly, but Alfred could hear the underlying tone of stain lining his voice, “ _calme-toi_. I’m sure Alfred has a good explanation.”

            “Oh, he’d damn well better,” his father growled, and Alfred curled in on himself, already knowing what was going to come out, “it was bad enough the fibbing and the wild tales he spun as a child, but _this?_! Running away from his soulmate? What the devil possessed him?!”

            “ _Arthur_ ,” his _papa_ growled, but Alfred still had to bite his lower lip viciously when it began to wobble. He didn’t know why he was surprised.

            This certainly wasn’t the first time he’d heard it.

            The door swung open with a crash, his father not caring that it had never been locked in the first place – Alfred knew better than to expect any privacy from his family by now – and the man stormed in, green eyes probably flashing in his fury. _Papa_ was probably coming in right behind him, worried, but he wouldn’t be on Alfred’s side either, past experience told him. And coming in behind them, he knew…

            “I didn’t mean to cause such an issue, Mr. Kirkland,” Ivan’s voice came, soft and insistent, apologetic and tenuous, and so _very_ unlike the other man.

            “No,” his father waved off, “it’s not your fault, Ivan. We should’ve put a stop to it when he was little – this has been going on for too long.”

            “We did,” his _papa_ reminded his father, a tad frostily if Alfred wasn’t mistaken, “Alfred has not said anything of the sort since he was in primary school, Arthur. It’s unfair to blame him before he can explain himself.”

            That would’ve been nice to hear, but it was rather moot given that they never believed him when he explained himself, anyways.

            “ _Papa_ , Dad,” another voice, surprised, came from down the hall, and he felt his fists clench, “Ivan, what’s going on? Did you find Alfred? Gil said he lost him a few hours back, but said we should probably head back this way…what’s wrong?”

            Matthew. He wrapped his arms even tighter around himself to stop from making a revealing movement. His father was checking all the hiding spots he knew of in the room for him; it wouldn’t do to get this far and reveal himself due to a lost temper. But if anyone could set off his temper…it was his brother.

            He forced the thoughts away as his father huffed – with exertion and frustration – and dropped whatever he’d been shoving aside before his voice turned towards Matthew, and he said, “Alfred’s gone missing now – he ran off from earlier.”

            “Ran off?” he could hear Matthew’s confusion, “For what?”

            “It seems, Matvey,” Ivan said warmly, “that Alfred and I are soulmates.”

            “Wha – Congrats!!! That’s amazing, Ivan! That’s fantastic news…but – why is Alfred missing?”

            “Because he ran off the moment he realized,” his father growled.

            Matthew gasped, and he could hear the terrible censure – the judgment, the horror, and even worse, the anger – that filled his voice, “He did _what_?”

            And the explanation began anew – the blame assigned and shamelessly applied. There were laments, outraged protests, and vehement denials. And, of course, the worst of them all…

            “Sometimes, I wish he could be more like Matthew!” his father snapped, finally abandoning the empty room, deeming it Alfred-free, “His brother never gave us nearly as much trouble as this little brat.”

            _Screw this. Fuck this fucking shit_. He pressed his eyes shut, pushing the back of his hand against them to force back the tears that tried to escape as he heard his family plus one descending down the stairs. _I’m going home._

            He wondered when home stopped being where his family was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So....if I was to write this for NaNoWriMo, would anyone read it?


	4. Alaska's Lullaby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another tumblr prompt fill: "Dad... are, are you crying?" "I am a grandfather now of course I am!"  
> And warning for this chapter - there is the concept of Mpreg

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: And because I love Anastasia, the Broadway Musical and the 1997 movie, there is the premise that she did live.

            “Dad…are you crying?”

            “I’m a grandfather now, of course I am!” came the huffy retort. Alfred almost said Arthur had been a grandfather for nearly two hundred years now, but he reconsidered quickly; he didn’t want the old man to have a heart attack.

            Even still, he grinned. It made something inside him warm and fuzzy, watching his father coo over his newest grandchild. It made all the chaos and hell of the months of pregnancy completely worth it.

            It had been hell indeed, he though, with no small relief that it was all over, and he had his newest son safely snuggled in his arms. From the very beginning it had been nerve wracking. There had been no doubt in his mind – when he’d first realized the stomach bug he’d thought he’d had hadn’t been a bug at all – who the father of his newest state had been. Not all of his states had a second parent – most of the time, he would feel the tingle of the peoples’ want, something inside him would respond, and voilà, state – but there were a few of them who _did_ …and Alaska was certainly one of them.

            The timing had been horrible, he’d known. For most of his pregnancies, he’d been able to squirrel himself away in the deepest reaches of his land, where no one would think to look for him. It wasn’t strange for a nation to take a leave of their duties – a nation was bound to the _land_ , he _was the land_ , even if the government did have some sway – particularly when they disagreed with the government in place, so none thought it odd. But now, he was one of the two world superpowers. He couldn’t abandon his duties for the entire pregnancy – not without sending up red flags to all the wrong people – but he certainly couldn’t let the other nations find out about the states and how he had them.

            There were so many things that could go wrong with revealing that kind of vulnerability, he felt himself go pale just thinking about it. He really lucked out when his family found out. Not even Ivan had taken it so well.

            He still remembered when Ivan had found out. And to think, it was little Anya’s lullaby that had given him away.

            He didn’t know why, but little Alaska had always made him think of Anastasia Nikolaevna – the young Russian princess whom he and some of his undercover operatives had helped smuggle out of Russia in the middle of the uprisings. They’d gotten lucky, the soldiers who’d killed the royal family miscounted the bodies, and Anastasia had gone unnoticed. The rumors of her survival had to come from somewhere, after all.

            She’d sing this beautiful lullaby to calm herself and others, to sing her children to sleep once they were born, and when her husband returned from war, haunted and distant, she sang it for him too. It was one of the only things she’d had from her family, and she’d passed it on too, no matter that she still lived today.

            Alfred had heard her sing it once, when he’d gone to visit – full of grief for her, who’d lost her whole family, her country, and her name all in one go, and a quieter grief of his own, he, who’d lost his best friend to something that would never give him back – and he had never forgotten it.

            He’d been as surprised as anyone would’ve been when his boss’s wife had asked him one day, when the First Lady had stopped him in the halls of the White House, what he’d been humming to himself. Apparently, he’d been doing it for weeks; it had been just soft enough that they’d barely noticed it, but she’d liked the sound of it, and had wanted to know. It had been the first time he’d realized what he’d been doing, but it had felt so _right_ , that it hadn’t even occurred to him to change the lullaby.

            And little Alaska had _loved_ it.

            When the little state had begun to become more active, a few bars of Anya’s lullaby settle him almost instantly. Particularly if he – and Alfred had been positive it would be a _he_ – decided to wake up his poor bearer in the middle of the night. No other lullaby would have the same effect, though he had learned to incorporate more than just one, otherwise what would happen if Alaska stopped reacting to it?

            It had been one of those days, when he’d slipped up. Alaska had kept him up almost all night, not wanting to sleep, even when he’d sung Anya’s lullaby until his voice had gone hoarse. He’d had a UN meeting the next morning, and at nearly six months pregnant, it had been a task and a half to conceal the really not-big-enough baby bump from anyone looking too closely.

            Even so, it had worked. No one had noticed, and the day had gone by as it usually did. The tensions between him and Ivan had been particularly strong that day, and he’d noticed the other nation’s keen, perceptive stare, but he hadn’t been too worried. He’d broken for lunch with the rest of the nations, and wandered into New York City to find something Alaska wouldn’t put up too much of a fuss about. And with two hours to wander, he wasn’t too worried about making it back on time.

            He should’ve been more concerned about Ivan. He hadn’t been, then.

            He’d tucked his hands in the winter coat pockets as he walked, the chilly breeze gusting through the city and around the back of his neck. He wandered off, eyeing some of the restaurants, before he made it down to some of the food stalls that were making his stomach perk up in delight.

            He’d almost made it there before he’d been whirled around and shoved into the nearby alley wall. Ivan had stood there, studying him with an odd frown on his face, expression staid and unreadable, even to him. He’s snapped out and insult, of course, once he’d mentally analyzed the situation, and then a demand for an explanation. But Ivan only asked him for one in response.

            Where did he learn that lullaby?

            Alfred hadn’t even realized he’d been humming it all the way from the UN.

            He’d retorted that it had been an old lullaby he’d remembered, he couldn’t recall from where. Before he snapped at the elder about something he couldn’t remember, prompting the more familiar expression of disdain and the sneer he could picture in his sleep. Ivan let him storm off after they’d argued a bit more, but he hadn’t quite let it go.

            Alfred had thought he’d been dreaming that night, when he’d half-woken near the witching hour to see Russia climbing through his window, knocking over a strategically placed picture frame in the process. He’d find out later that the elder nation had drugged his milk from the night before, intent on putting him safely asleep for the entire night. Luckily, he’d only had a few sips before Alaska had kicked violently, startling him into dropping the glass. And after soothing the unborn little state, he’d lost the craving for the liquid. So when he’d woken – barely cognizant, halfway through the night – Russia had not thought it an issue.

            He’d still been half asleep, though, and too comfortable in the position he’d maneuvered himself into to do much about it, though. And at nearly six months pregnant, that was a damn hard place to be at.

            A cold hand had brushed the hair from his face, while another dipped down, tracing the curve of his stomach as he slept, not _quite_ awake, but almost. He could feel the eyes on him long before he dragged himself from sleep. But when he’d woken, everything had been in place, even the picture frame that had fallen. The only things that had told him of his nighttime visitor had been that odd sense of surety – of the faintest glimpse of memory – and the very telling crack in the glass of the picture frame on his windowsill.

            Little Alaska had woken grumpily not long after, however, and didn’t give him long to contemplate – or freak out – about what had happened. He’d hummed numberless lullabies to placate the little state, but nothing worked. The kicking increased, his stomach turned, and his organs took some of the bruising – whatever it had been that had set Alaska off, it hadn’t been pleasant. So, finally, he’d resorted to Anya’s beloved lullaby. And, at long last, Alaska had calmed.

            He hadn’t realized that the window had been left open…just a _crack_.

            And Ivan had sat there, under his windowsill, listening to him sing lullabies to baby Alaska still in the womb.

            Not even a week later, Ivan had sent him a coded message, demanding to know why he hadn’t been informed about Alaska. And made it very clear that it wasn’t the state of Alaska he referred to, but _their_ Alaska. Their little, beautiful, stubborn little Alaska.

            Arthur had found out not long after that, storming into his home one day, after a disastrous diplomatic meeting where his boss had refused the old Empire access to the younger nation. And stared.

            Being six months pregnant in a pair of sweatpants and an overly large t-shirt –which he was sure wasn’t actually _his_ , but he didn’t really want to think about that – wasn’t exactly easy to _miss_. After the shouting match they’d had – back and forth, all _how’d I never know_ and _why’d you never tell me, damn it_ – the Empire had settled into a protective role that had far outstripped what he’d had to deal with in his colonial days. He’d never realized how much Arthur had held back from him when he’d been younger.

            It had been godsend, though, when the old man had set up shop and brokered no refusal from the expecting nation. Alaska’s pregnancy had only become increasingly difficult on him, and his father’s help had eased it all.

            Even now, with Alaska born, the old Empire was still protective as all hell. He’d come to the states several times since he’d figured out Alfred was pregnant, intent on keeping him healthy and safe. He’d kept a wary eye out for the Russian who’d gotten his precious child in such a position.

            And he was right to be wary, Alfred knew. He was well aware that Russia knew of Alaska, but they had yet to speak about the precious child, and now that Alaska had officially been declared a US State, there was no form of recourse for Russia to claim the little tyke. But that didn’t mean Russia couldn’t find ways to be there – silent and imposing and _always_ right where he couldn’t see.

            But…the less Arthur knew about that, the less he’d have to deal with the overbearing mother-henning. He was already going to get enough of it when Arthur had to leave for home once again.

            “He likes me,” his father beamed at the cooing infant, who did, indeed, seem to like the green-eyed former Empire. Many of his states tended to be very picky, and most only liked their father’s presence, barely tolerating some of their siblings until they grew older. It seemed Alaska was quite the opposite, and it made him smile.

            “You’re new,” he retorted playfully, just for the sake of it, “Of course he’s going to stare at you.”

            Arthur rolled his eyes, too content to take offense as he smiled at the baby with shinning eyes. Alaska gurgled adorably in his arms, hands flailing out of the swaddling blanket trying to grab at the elder’s face, and Alfred could see the old Empire _melt_.

            _If only his enemies could see him now_ , Alfred thought, the corner of his lips quirking in a delighted smile. Before Communism had taken the term, “the Red Scare,” from the world, the “Scarlet Terror,” had been used in reference to England and his bloody Empire more than often enough for it to stick amongst nations. His own people had used “lobster backs,” and “bloody back,” for the ruthless tactics and bloodshed the British enforced, along with their brilliant red coats.

            Seeing the former Scrooge of the Seven Seas _cooing_ would’ve done in half the world.

            “He looks like you,” was the soft comment that pulled him from his thoughts, and he looked over to see his father watching him with an odd look in his eyes. There was a soft sense of nostalgia, the sharpness of a bitter memory softened by where he was and what he was doing. “Not the coloring, of course,” Arthur’s mouth twisted, and Alfred could already see the hint of a snarl the former Empire was holding back in the name of keeping peace, “ _that_ ’s all his _father_ ’s. But his smile…his eyes – those are yours.”

            Alaska cooed, and Alfred smiled, “That’s normal,” he said, “for most of my kids, they’re mine alone. But those who have a second parent, they tend to favor their other parent in terms of coloring.”

            They did have one thing in common, however. All of his children with other nations…they all had _his_ eyes.

            He looked down at the smiling, gurgling, cooing little Alaska, and his bright, beautiful ice blue eyes, and realized it was something he couldn’t be more grateful for.

            And, oddly enough, he’d gotten the feeling Ivan felt the same.


	5. They Should've Known (Like, Seriously?)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> GerAme fill based on the tumblr prompt "I lied"

**“I lied.”**

            Gilbert raised a brow at the sudden admission, and turned to face his baby brother, “That’s new for you, Lud,” he said, a smirk twitching his lips when he realized his little _bruder_ was _blushing_. “What did you lie about?”

            He figured, in good old little brother styled vengeance, that _that’s_ why Ludwig waited until he’d started drinking his beer to say, “About not being in a relationship.”

            His spit take could’ve made the Guinness Book of World Records.

            He looked mournfully at the mouthful of good quality German beer dripping off his neat-freak of a brother’s formerly clean coffee table and onto the carpet, and thought it was just recompense for the shit Ludwig had just dropped on top of him. And then he turned to his brother and demanded details.

* * *

           “What are you not telling me?” Matthew asked suspiciously, eyeing his brother’s happy, wide-eyed expression as they walked through the outlet center on his side of the Niagara border. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say Alfred looked almost _lovesick_. But even though Alfred had been in relationships before, he’d never looked _this_ before. And besides, Alfred hadn’t said anything about being in a relationship. His little brother might keep Arthur and Francis in the dark – and after the disaster that was Ivan and Alfred’s brief foray into a love-hate relationship until their friendship regained its footing, he couldn’t blame him – but he’d almost always tell Matthew.

            Alfred had that happy relationship glow about him, but unless he was in a relationship with a human – which he hadn’t been, not since Amelia, and he was never _glowing_ when he was with humans, especially since he knew how that generally tended to end – then he should know. All nations tended to know when a pair coupled up. The only exception had been America and Russia, but even then, everyone had fairly suspected them, and they’d split up fairly soon, re-instigating their friendship soon after.

            “Nothing,” Alfred insisted, his tone almost dreamy, eyes glazed just a _tad_ because he was sure he was thinking about _someone_ that Matthew really wanted to know about.

            Matthew raised a pointed brow, looking astonishingly like Francis when he was calling out bullshit from his expression alone, “You’ve been off in la-la land for too long if you think I’ll believe that,” he said emphatically.

            Finally, the almost lovey-dovey haze lifts from Alfred’s eyes and he turns to Matthew with the annoyed look that all younger siblings perfect when faced with their irritating elder, the patented _hands on hips_ and _you can’t make me do anything_ included, and said, irritably, “I’m not telling you anything, Matt. I just said I’d pick something up for a friend.”

            “A friend,” he drawled, his old French accent lilting his words, “and what kind of friend are you interrupting our weekend for?” Because, really, that had been the sign that something was off.

            Every few months, the two brothers – not _twins_ , despite what they looked like, Matthew was older and took vicious pleasure in rubbing it in – would take some time off and retreat to each other’s lands for a week. Sometimes, when things were being particularly difficult in the capital, and they were particularly needed, it would just be a weekend, as was the case this time around. But most of the time, they just vanished into the depths of the country, lounged around the city or the countryside – depending on what caught their interest at the time – and ignored the rest of the world for anything short of the breakdown of the world order.

            At least, they were _supposed to_ , but Alfred had gotten a text from a number Matthew didn’t recognize off the top of his head, gotten that doe-eyed look on his face, and then demanded that they stop off at the outlets so he could pick something up for his “friend.”

            No siree, no friend made Alfred that giddy, and especially not…wait a sec….

            That took it – he turned to stare at his skipping, swaying little brother incredulously as they passed yet _another_ store that didn’t meet their needs – Alfred was _humming_.

            _I’m calling in reinforcements_.

            He’d _love_ to see Alfred explain this to Arthur, no matter how long his brother called him a snitch for afterwards.

* * *

           “Do you think they know we’re aware of their planning?” Ludwig asked his boyfriend as Alfred stirred the soup with a critical expression furrowing his brows. Alfred side-eyed him without turning, the ruffs on the powder-pink _Kiss the Cook_ apron not even stirring, but he could see the sunny grin curling on that tanned face.

            “They haven’t connected the dots yet,” he pronounced, after he finally deemed the soup suitable for consumption, and stepped back, turning to lean against the island in front of Ludwig. A mischievous smirk was curling on his lips, “You’d think they’d put the pieces together when Mattie and Gil started dating, and they noticed we were hanging out more often.”

            “I think Gilbert assumed I had no interest in romantic endeavors,” he said, astoundingly proper for someone who was eyeing the patch of skin that had been exposed when Alfred stretched to snag a set of plates with a borderline _indecent_ expression. Of course, Gilbert had no such delusions in regards to Ludwig’s sexual appetite. Living in the same building as someone as nosy and perceptive as Gilbert was horrific for privacy.

            “You mean Gilbert’s still trying to hook you up with Feliciano,” Alfred clarified with a knowing smile that Ludwig matched. The Northern Italian nation had so much love to share, but his heart was taken by someone Ludwig could never match up to, and so both nations had ended _that_ particular exploration on mutual and friendly terms. Actually, it had been ending things with Feliciano that had led him to running into _Alfred_.

            They’d both made Feliciano a full pasta dinner – not as good as his pasta, of course, but they did their best – when they’d gotten together and realized if he hadn’t inadvertently introduced them one autumn morning, they might not have gotten together as early as they had.

            “I think he’s relented on that one,” he murmured as he slid around the island and Alfred turned to face him, a wide smile on his face. Alfred slid an arm up his chest and a hand cupped his face as his own hands anchored to the granite island countertop on either side of the mischievous nation.

            “That’s good,” Alfred breathed, and Ludwig felt a flare of heat simmer through his blood when darkening cerulean eyes dropped to glimpse his lips before glancing back, “I’d have objected to that if he hadn’t,” he added, voice deepening, husky, “very much so.”

            “Mhmm?” he hummed, leaning forward, letting the feeling of their breath mingling between them fuel the heat growing in his veins. An awkward tingle – like the hair raising at the back of his neck – broke into his senses, like a refocused awareness that tripled the heat in the air around them, and he almost smiled. “Should we prove how much you object to my brother’s baseless efforts?”

            The sparkle in Alfred’s eyes grew, and he was suddenly reminded of one of the many reasons he deeply loved the man in the circle of his arms, “Why, Mr. Beilschmidt,” he laughed wholeheartedly, and Ludwig felt warm, “I wouldn’t object to _that_.”

            Their lips met in a familiar dance, a tale they spun every time they wrapped around each other, pressed wholeheartedly into the flush of another’s warmth. It wasn’t the kiss of two blushing youths of a time and future to come, no certainly not; and neither was it the languid lavishing – slow and careful, but no less loving – of a couple who knew every inch of each other, and had for quite some time. No, Alfred and Ludwig fell somewhere in the middle – not the blushing youths they’d once been, but not aged and cautious empires of old, for all that Ludwig had once carried it in his name. They were simply two lovers familiar with each other; eager, despite all their years spent together, and carefree, unwary – or perhaps even excited – about all the things they didn’t yet know of one another. They loved: unreservedly, incautiously, and wholeheartedly.

            And every ounce of that was displayed to their unwitting audience, watching the scene play out in stunned shock.

            A low whistle broke through their loving kiss, and Alfred and Ludwig both felt a smile curl on their lips when they recognized the tone _and_ the voice of several arguments occurring not too far beyond the window next to them.

            “Think they got the message?” Alfred asked huskily, a devious glint gleaming in his eyes, and Ludwig threw back his head and laughed.

**Author's Note:**

> So....if I was to write this for NaNoWriMo, would anyone read it?


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